Where does the Grief Go?

Where does the grief go?

The tears spilled over, falling in streams down her cheeks.

She looks me in the eyes and asks “why?”

And I wonder the same thing.

Oh where, oh where, Lord, does the grief go?

I used to take it within myself. Hold it, cling to it, not let it go.

Collecting all the grief I encountered throughout the day.

It felt wrong to let it go. As if letting it go, was disrespecting those who had entrusted their stories to me.

So, I carried it with me, hoping that perhaps I was more powerful than I am. That maybe if I carried it within me, those whose grief it actually was might be healed.

Oh where, oh where, Lord, does the grief go?

Then my body began to ache. Pain radiated in and through me. The grief was stuck within me.

The world’s distress all came crashing in around me. All I could think was “what is wrong with me? Why am I unable to hold it all? Is this, O Lord, what you have called me to? If it is—then I am sorry for failing.”

Oh where, oh where, Lord, does the grief go?

Then I remembered I am not the Savior.

I am not a failure for crumbling under the weight of all this pain.

Oh where, oh where, Lord, does the grief go?

I heard, “I need someone to go. To be my hands and feet. You answered and you went, you have gone, and continue to go. I never asked you to hold their grief inside yourself or save them from the world’s pain. I called you to love my people, to hold sacred space, to bear witness to both, their joy, and their suffering. I simply asked if you would go.”

Ah, I thought. I have been doing myself harm when trying to help. For God did not create me as a tank to hold it all. God calls me to go but in a way that won’t cause so much damage to my heart, mind, soul, and body.

Now I go. I enter darkened rooms, window shades drawn down, bodies shaking with the force of their sobs. The grief of lost health, lost senses of security, lost loved ones, lost dreams of how life was supposed to be.

I sit and offer comforting touch, a listening ear, and think “O Lord are you here?”

I hold the space, the best I can, for the grief to freely flow. I try to leave them in as much peace as is possible, hoping that the peace that surpasses all understanding will find them, blanket them, and comfort them.

Then I get up, sanitize my hands, and try to do it again.

Oh where, oh where, Lord, does the grief go?

A few weeks ago, I sat with someone in the throes of grief. Her body rocking back and forth as the sobs came out deep and long. I wondered, “where does the grief go?”

The grief will live within their hearts and bodies—for love has a powerful impact and lasting mark. The grief will enter my heart, touch it, and remain there, love always finds a way in.

 Perhaps, the grief goes to heaven—where the only One who can truly understand, the God of Grief, the God of Love captures each and every one of our tears and counts them as sacred. The God of the brokenhearted is in the business healing.

Last night, as I cried for this wounded world and all her hurting people, I wondered again, “oh where, oh where, Lord, does the grief go?”

I felt Divine arms wrap around me and heard “it goes straight here into my heart, and I hold it all, I care tenderly for my beloveds in the deepest of pains.”

And I sighed, trusting that slowly but surely the grief will be transformed by the God who is in the business of love.

Oh where, oh where, Lord, does the grief go?

It goes right along with us. Reminding us of what or who we have lost—of those people and things we have loved and still love. It is allowing that love to continue to guide us through and heal us along the way.

Grief might not go away, it will probably be here to stay, but I we hope it will be transformed and the sharp edges of pain might be softened.

Oh where, oh where, Lord does the grief go?

It goes right into the Divine hands who somehow hold us all. Who promises to be with us through it all. 

Amen.

         My creative process, if you can call it one, often begins with a thought, a word, a phrase that continues to come to me over and over until I choose to pick it up and follow where it leads. If I choose to follow the path sometimes a reflection emerges and sometimes it is a poem; recently it has been a little bit of both. It starts with the words of a poem, coming in bits and bursts. There is a freedom in poetry, less structure, that allows for a bit more of my feelings.

         The question “where does the grief go?” kept emerging. It sprung from a very emotional visit I had, a patient in deep distress, sobs pouring from her. As I sat and held space for her grief, being as lovingly present as I could, I noticed something different within me. I found myself present in the space and moment, but I noticed that I wasn’t soaking up all the grief like I used to. It touched my heart and impacted me, but I didn’t hold the grief in the ways I used to.

         It prompted reflection, a discernment of “is this healthy growth in boundaries?” or “am I burned out?” Ultimately, I landed on healthy growth. A way to do this work that allows me to be human and have things touch my heart, without becoming weighed down with the pain, lugging it all around with me. To have the space to yes, sanitize my hands (we must sanitize in and out of every room), then to go to the next person in need.

         This poem and reflection do center around my real lived experience as a chaplain, as a person called to ordained ministry, and I often feel insecure that I might come off as boastful. That is never my intention—I simply want to process my experience and perhaps help someone else in the process. The reality is grief impacts us all. At some point we will all be touched by the pain of grief, the loss of something or someone we love and value and we will also love and care for someone in the throes of grief themselves. This poem is less about what I do and more about how do we as human beings live in a world that is so deeply wounded and hurting, how do we as people show up and care for others who are grieving, how do we live where we hear of so much suffering all around. Where does that grief go? Especially if we choose to let it touch our hearts but not remain in our bodies?

While a resident chaplain, I had to have a mantra (that I really ought to continue to say) that I would say at the end of the day. Reminding me to trust that I did what I am called to, to the best of my ability, to trust that God holds us all, and to release all those I cared for back to God, as well as releasing my own self back to God. I have this mantra to remind me that I am not the Savior, nor did God call me to be, and that just as I care for others, I too am in need of care, tenderness, and certainly God.

I have been intentionally weaving these writings into the themes of Advent, as a personal way to honor this beautifully rich liturgical season. As I reflected on the heaviness of the subject of grief, especially during the week of Advent when we light the joy candle—I wondered how I could tie it all together. A colleague of mine gave me a wonderfully rich article about grief to read, Redeeming Loss: A radically Different Approach to the Stresses of Grief by George R. Faller and The Rev. Dr. Heather Wright. In that article I found this beautiful way to tie it all together:

“The pain is simply the missing of something good, which reminds us of what matters, the love that was working before the loss. Even after a magnificent sunset fades into the night we can continue to savor the experience. Recalling the goodness that preceded the pain allows room for both joy and sorrow, which helps us face the future with courage” (Faller and Wright, p. 12).

Love is often why grief hurts so badly and even though we want to put them on opposite ends of the spectrum, we can’t because they truly coexist. As the writers say there is “room for both joy and sorrow.” It is not to diminish the real pain of loss. I have learned that grief is carried with us, that it never is fully healed, but it can be transformed.

One of my favorite hymns is entitled the Canticle of the Turning. Its lyrics point us to the hope we have in God, that no matter what, we hope and pray and trust that the world is about to turn. The season of Advent reminds us of this—the waiting is hard, the unknown is scary, the pain can often feel unbearable, but keep hoping, keep trusting, keep searching for the joy. For truly our God is about to turn the world and the grief into something new.

Friends, I am not entirely sure where the grief goes, I have my suspicions and my hopes—but I know that grief touches our hearts, our lives, and minds. I know the power of grief transforms us and invites us into a more loving way. I know that the God of Grief is the God of Love and that our grief touches God’s very own heart. And I know, somehow in the messiest most painful parts of this wounded world those tender, loving, Divine hands are holding us all.

Amen.